


Seeing is believing

by Zje



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Blindness, Café Musain, Friendship, Gen, blind!grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zje/pseuds/Zje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing revolutionary going on in Grantaire's life until Joly runs into a passionate pretty boy who plans to hold speeches at a café and drags all his friends along. Pretty boys aren't enough to impress a blind guy though, and Grantaire is not a nice person to begin with (or so he tells himself).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing is believing

**Author's Note:**

> Ridiculous amount of really bad puns. Bless the beta besanii without whom I'd probably be lost.

“Can't you see how beautiful the world can be?”

“Not since the accident,” Grantaire joked and tapped his temple, his empty eyes wide, unseeing and yet unsettlingly active. He could swear Joly was biting his lip at that – once you were used to your friend being blind, you didn’t think about it anymore. 

“Figure of speech,” he mumbled. Grantaire didn't mind.

When you lose a sense you've always had and used a lot, it feels like the world is ending – no, worse. The world keeps on turning, but you can no longer participate. Not like you could before. What use is a blind painter? Of course, ‘the blindly painted memory of a world of light’ does have a nicely abstract, modern art ring to it, but that's not what he wants.

Hell, if he could have figured out sculpting, he could still do that, because feeling is way more important than seeing when you are working in three dimensions.

He'd tried. But knowing everything he’d formed out of clay or cut into stone the last few years had looked like a traffic accident, he couldn't quite feel happy. He couldn't _see_ it but knew of its miserable reality, not unlike being unable to see the paper he still absentmindedly scribbled on when talking on the phone or waiting for someone. Fencing disappeared from his life just as art did. At least his loss of eyesight didn't diminish his talent for dancing, and he still had his ‘blindingly bright personality’, as he liked to remind his friends.

“I'm gonna go get another coffee,” Joly sighed, slowly getting to his feet and scrambling for some money among the papers on the small table between them. Grantaire held up a wallet, his face showing no emotion.

“Thank- wait. That's my wallet, R. How di-”

“Is it?” Grantaire feigned surprise. “I must have taken it by accident and not noticed the difference in colour.”

He could almost feel the ‘so done with you shit R’ glance Joly cast him before grabbing the wallet and leaving the table.

His self-satisfied grin fell when somebody, using the coffee house background noise as cover for lurking, grabbed his sides and shouted in his ear: “CAPITAL R, THIS IS WHERE YOU'VE BEEN HIDING.”

“I've missed you too, Bahorel.” He winced under the weight Bahorel now put on him in a weird hug from above. After burying his face into Grantaire's hair, Bahorel flopped down on Joly's chair, and sighed.

“Drinks?”

“You know, Bahorel, I see nothing wrong with getting shitfaced on a weekday-”

“That would be because you don't see anything, period.”

“Guys, look at this!” Joly slammed something on the table that was definitely – hopefully – not coffee.

“I would say I see where this is going, but I obviously can't,” Grantaire remarked after a moment's silence.

“Right,” Joly said. “I was gonna get coffee and ran into this random pretty boy who was handing out flyers. He asked me if I was satisfied with my life and what the government is doing to it, so naturally I said 'I'm not sure but I have a feeling you're about to tell me more about it', to which he just smiled – gosh, he _was_ pretty – anyway, he gave me a flyer. He's inviting everyone to a sort of lecture, or more open discussion tonight in that café on the corner.”

“... I'm still not _seeing_ where this is going.” 

Bahorel chuckled beside Grantaire. 

“I think we should go there. That guy seemed very happy to not be chased off or ignored for once.”

“Is this Bossuet speaking? I think you two should come out of each other's asses at _some_ point...” Oh how he wished he could see Joly's blush when he struggled to get back on track.

“Remember what we were talking about just now –”

“Remember how I definitely failed to see your point...”

“–anyway, I think it could be cool and interesting. And after all, do you have anything else to do tonight?”

Grantaire turned his head to where Bahorel was sitting and put a hopeful expression on his face.

“Something that doesn't include endless drinking, coming home at 4am to sing in the kitchen, and Bahorel crashing on our couch for a week.”

Bahorel made noises of protest, but Joly was already speaking again. 

“Who knows, maybe you'll get the pretty boy to engage in a heated debate? We all know you love those, and I am done for today.”

Grantaire considered it. He could feel Bahorel leaning in, whispering: “You could crush his dreams!” 

Grantaire snorted and turned in Joly's direction.

“I'll _see_ you there then, my friend – or you know, won't.”

Joly groaned.

 

Grantaire did, in fact, turn up at the café in question, trailing Bahorel, who he'd been shopping with, behind him (“I have a good reason to buy five different colours of glitter!” “Really, who are you trying to blind, dear friend?” “Shut up, R.”).

A couple of people were seated around several tables, Bahorel said as he took the lead with a hand on Grantaire's arm, but there weren't many and it didn't really look like they were there for political discussions. 

“Ah, Joly!” 

Bahorel guided Grantaire through the café, to a table Grantaire assumed was in the far corner where a chorus of at least three voices Grantaire didn't recognise greeted and urged them to sit down. Bahorel, with a sense of care one would not associate with someone of his bulky and bruised build, made sure Grantaire was seated safely with the group before plopping down next to him. 

Someone gasped and whispered “Is he blind?” and Grantaire's stomach began to stir.  
Starting great.

“Yes, I'm blind,” he spat in the direction of the voice, eyes wide, knowing full well how scary the sight of his milky, scarred pupils could be, “and most definitely not deaf.”

(His friends were allowed to join in on the stupid puns he himself started as a coping mechanism, but strangers just talking over his head--) 

“Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm, I didn't mean to... sorry man. That was rude of me.” The voice sounded earnest. A young man, not quite grown into his own body yet, probably scrawny like a teenager.

“Good,” Joly said, trying to brush off the uncomfortable encounter, “how about we all introduce ourselves?”

(Letting people use their own voices to talk about themselves is something they had quickly decided was the best idea to deal with Grantaire otherwise not recognising them.)

The next voice was still new to Grantaire. 

“Me? Okay, I'll start. The name's Courfeyrac, how ya' doing. I'm here with my bro E –” an exasperated huff was heard “–to talk about the government, public freedom, personal dreams and stuff.” Another huff. “Oh, and I'm a photographer, so I hope you don't mind if I take some photos tonight?” 

Murmured ‘“nah’”s were heard all around. Grantaire shook his head slightly. Courfeyrac's voice was pleasant and warm to listen to, a baritone speaking from the throat, quick and lively.

A low, rich voice introduced its owner as Combeferre, who was friends with the owner of the café and had organized this evening. He was actually studying medicine, just like Joly, and had an exam in the morning, so he'd leave a bit earlier.

Next up was Marius, the one who had asked about Grantaire's sight. He had been brought here by Courfeyrac and seemed the least enthusiastic about the speech ‘“E’” was going to hold later on. He sounded like someone had just dragged him along and Grantaire could sympathise, even though he was still waiting for Marius to prove he was not just a complete idiot.

Then spoke the leader of the group.

“My name is Enjolras. I'm... ummm. I actually just quit studying, so I... can't really say I'm anything in a – _professional_ sense. I was hoping to get some people together here for some ideas I have about the future...maybe we can really change something?”  
He sounded like a teenager on the wrong side of puberty and even less convinced than Marius. Grantaire had to bite his tongue to not interrupt him with something really snarky and rude. How could Joly let himself be talked into anything by someone this insecure? Oh, right, he had called Enjolras a “pretty boy,” Joly's only weakness aside from potentially disease-spreading places, food, people or situations.

Crushing a little schoolboy's dreams would almost be mean, but Grantaire had never considered himself to be a nice person anyway.  
When it was time for Enjolras' speech, the dull small talk the others had been engaging in died down and Grantaire could hear “the leader” getting to his feet (surprised he didn't stumble about them), rustling some papers. He nervously cleared his throat and began talking, hoping someone would pay attention.

“My dear friends. We're gathered here to discuss an important topic of our current and future lives: the freedom and security of our privacy.”

Somebody somewhere voiced the tired groan Grantaire held back. Enjolras ignored it, but that didn't stop him from sounding any less like a middle schooler giving a presentation on a topic he didn't quite understand.

“Who gave our government the right to ask for all our personal data whenever they feel like it? Why must the university know whether I'm married? What for must I open up every piece of my identity when moving into a new place? How sure are we that telephones and internet connections aren't being bugged to monitor all our moves?”

There was a dramatic pause.

( _Paranoid, but not completely unrealistic_ , Grantaire thought to himself.)

“But that's just the tip of the iceberg,” Enjolras continued, “We are, technically, the ones who put these people into positions of power. But how are we to know who to trust? How are we to foresee the degree to which politicians have succumbed to the taste of power and money, smuggled into their pockets by resourceful lobbyists? Who are we to trust? Who is the 'good government'? Who is the government, period?”

(Grantaire was kind of impressed, but only a little bit)

“We are.” Pause. Then again, slower, more accentuated: “ _We. Are._ And we should take matters into our own hands.”

“How?” Grantaire interjected before he could stop himself. _Damn it, brain, I'm Grantaire, not a bloody revolutionary!_

Enjolras' voice sounded closer, directed at Grantaire, when he answered.

“We show them our power. We refuse to be silent. We stand up to them, without harming anyone.”

Grantaire snorted.

“What then? A bake sale, 'for a sweeter future'?”  
He could almost feel how Enjolras was taken aback by this.

“Don't you believe in non-violent revolutions? In universal peaceful coexistence?”

“Let's just say, I don't _see_ the world as you do.”

Bahorel was the only one to chuckle at that, and Grantaire smiled.

“Why not?” Enjolras was puzzled. “Violence only brings about more violence. Peace cannot be obtained through bloodshed.”

“Blunt instrument to the back of the head,” Grantaire mumbled so Enjolras couldn't hear. Bahorel's shoulder was shaking with silent laughter against Grantaire's.

The “leader” spoke to the whole audience again: “We are the people. We are the state. If we are not controlling our own government, who will? Thank you.”

A few people, all in this part of the café, knocked approvingly on tables, and the general talking picked up again.

“Great speech, E,” Courfeyrac said.

“It was certainly... insightful,” Joly said helpfully.

Bahorel grunted, indecisive.

Grantaire leaned forward, carefully resting his arms on the table. “What are you trying to achieve with this?,” he asked.

“Change,” Enjolras replied immediately. “A better future where our lives aren't dictated by old men regaling in privileged prosperity–”

“Your idealism is nauseating.”

He almost expected dramatic intakes of breath in the seconds of thick silence that followed.

“Look,” he continued, making sure to sound as condescending as humanly possible. “Nice idea and all, but this is not the way to change the world. You're not _doing anything_. You scatter nice words in the wind, and that's the bourgeois way to revolutionize the world. Talk until no one is listening and no one sees how you keep playing along in the great farce of free will.”

“Take it easy, R,” Joly mumbled.

“No, dear friend, I won't. When someone has the guts to stand up and make a fool of himself talking about great changes like that, then that someone can take my criticism.”

“What would you have me do then, hmm?” Enjolras sounded hurt. Good. “Would you just storm the parliament and set everything on fire, to unleash total anarchy, since violence seems to be the only way you know to get your point across?”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. It seemed like he had hit a soft spot.

“Sounds like a start. Certainly would change more than aimless café-palaver. The key to change is taking action. But you'd have to get every single person to join you, and that's impossible. People don't care enough to change things – as long as they can buy wine without getting into trouble they won't ever rise to risk their comfort, or even lives, for a faint sense of righteousness.”

“...you don't believe anything can be changed then?”

Grantaire shrugged.

“Sure, if you're a _god_ , or similarly powerful, you could change things however you like.”

“Power corrupts. That's exactly the problem.”

“And so the vicious cycle is closed! Now, tell me if they have alcohol here.”

There was silence around the table, then there was the sound of a chair scraping the floor and footsteps departing – Grantaire was uncertain, since the backgound noise had grown louder again. But then someone punched his arm.

“What?”

“You made him storm off,” Joly hissed. “Is it too much to ask you not to be a dick for once?”

Grantaire rubbed his arm absentmindedly and made sure to put on a defiant expression just in case. He wasn't here to make friends, Joly should have known that.

When Enjolras hadn't reappeared ten minutes later, Courfeyrac said he wanted to go look for him.  
“Sometimes he just needs time to cool off, he's so hot-headed.” 

“Grantaire is too, they should have never met like this,” Joly replied and Grantaire felt like the sulking kid in the corner while the parents discuss their children's ineptitude (the other kid, meanwhile, was probably in the bathroom stalls either hiding tears or punching the wall). 

“I need some air,” Grantaire murmured as he got up. 

“want me to come with yo-” said Joly immediately

“ _No_ , Joly –it’s fine. Don’t- I just wanna think.” Way to avoid near-confrontations. 

Grantaire was able to navigate through a seeing world on his own very well, avoiding where he could hear sound of people and objects, though he secretly liked the security of a friend at his side. But right now the closeness of everyone at that table, and the lingering sting of having made someone who could’ve been a new friend run off boiled in his stomach, despite his don’t-care-fuck-off-attitude. 

_Get a grip_ , he told himself as he stepped out the back door, breathing in the hint of sour garbage scent and cold cigarette smoke. Grantaire leaned against the rough brick wall and was just about to light a cigarette when someone spoke. 

“Would you mind not smoking while I’m in the slipstream?”

“Jesus, you startled me, I didn’t know you were there.”

“How can you miss me, I’m wearing bright red!” Enjolras sounded like a sulking boy’s who had just been caught almost-not-quite-crying. 

Grantaire stared incredulously in Enjolras’ direction, then slowly raised the lighter, waving it in front of his empty eyes. 

“Wait-” Grantaire could almost hear the penny finally drop. “Oh. _Oh_. I’m so –” 

“Sorry, yeah, didn’t think, whatever.” Grantaire lit his cigarette. Who cared what a daft, arrogant schoolboy said (and the schoolboy was still too embarrassed to say anything).An awkward pause followed, stretching on for so long that it seemed solid in the air, and neither wanted to break the silence first. 

Luckily, neither of them had to speak. 

_“HEY, I JUST MET YOU, AND THIS IS CRAZY-”_

“Shi – _shit, shit, SHIT_ –” Enjolras scrambled for the blaring phone as Grantaire giggled. 

“Not your ringtone choice, I’m guessing?” 

Enjolras let out an exasperated sigh and mumbled through gritted teeth: “Courfeyrac.” After a moment he added: “The others are wondering where we are and – oh, _Courf_ –” 

Grantaire was confused. “Was that a text?” 

“Yes.” 

“They set _Call Me Maybe_ as your _text alert_? I can’t really tell if you’re looking at me with a ‘so done with you’ look right now, you know.” 

Enjolras sighed. 

Grantaire could hear the reluctance in his voice when he spoke again. 

“I’m…too embarrassed to go back in. Thanks to _you_.” 

Grantaire was stunned, but Enjolras didn’t continue, so he awkwardly cleared his throat. “What? Umm. You mean…I criticised your _public speech_ and now you lost all hope?”

“Hmm.” 

“...Dude. You gotta learn to take it.” 

Enjolras said nothing, but Grantaire could feel the disappointment radiating from him. 

_I’m not a nice person. I won’t pamper his feelings._

Enjolras let out a deep, defeated sigh. 

“You’re right. No one ever changed the world without taking a few beatings.” 

He still didn’t sound like he believed himself, but Grantaire heard him moving to the door, about to rejoin his friends. 

_Fuck it._ He grabbed Enjolras’ sleeve. 

“Listen…it’s not that…you got a point. In your speech. You just need to work on the way you present it, and line it with facts and concrete ideas, with plans, with a goal. So people could believe you… and believe _in_ you.” 

That stupidly dumb, hopeful part of his mind realised that, even if anything he said got through to Enjolras, he’d never see the spark in his eyes that was in his voice. 

“Would you-” Enjolras’ voice trembled slightly.- “Would you help me? Even if it’s just blunt critique? That would…probably help me a lot.” 

Grantaire let go of his sleeve and crossed his arms, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

“I don’t know if I’d really help, man. I don’t really care for your cause.” 

_I don’t even know why I’m starting to care for you._

“I’ll buy you beer.”

“Deal.”

Enjolras chuckled. “You know, Grantaire, I’m starting to _see_ your value now.”


End file.
